


Still

by Szcay



Category: Penny Dreadful (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Other, Psychological Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-25
Updated: 2017-02-25
Packaged: 2018-09-26 11:15:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9893294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Szcay/pseuds/Szcay
Summary: “Careful now, Victor. No deep breaths.”“Are you sure this will be satisfactory?”“It could take down an elephant, she’ll be unconscious within two breaths.”There is an accident.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Warnings in endnote, containing _major_ spoilers.

 

 

Victor walked briskly through the haunted corridors of Bedlam towards the laboratory. He was giddy, almost skipping. The day before yesterday they had tested the new serum and it had worked wonders. Yesterday Henry had been busy, and Victor had stayed anxiously away. Today they would brew a soporific that would sedate even Lily for Victor to bring here. Then she would be healed, and they would be together.

For so long he’d lived in what seemed like a twilight, his research his only flame against the creeping shadows. Then she drew breath, the perfect embodiment of everything he wished for in a woman. He’d never known happiness like he did with her. When she’d grown vile and twisted, he’d never known such despair. The only shred of hope that kept him from succumbing to the filled syringe, the scalpel or noose was Henry. With Henry’s help he would restore Lily to perfection and then his life would be sunlight, with both his beloved and his dearest friend by his side.

The heavy door of the laboratory was before him. He pushed it open.

Immediately he was struck by an acrid smell, unpleasant and stinging, causing his eyes to water. Henry was supposed to be there already, but there was no sign of him. Victor called out, but received no answer. A feeling of unease started building in his chest. He went further inside, coughing now from the smell.

On the floor, previously hidden from sight, lay Henry, face down. Victor ran over. He needed to rouse him, get him away from the fumes. Victor kneeled by him, putting his hand on his arm to roll him over, but met resistance. The arm under his hand was stiff. The chill of it was seeping through the fabric. Victor gasped. Henry was hard.

Cold.

Dead.

Victor recoiled. His thoughts stuttered. He looked around. Henry lay half on his front, back turned towards Victor, one arm outstretched before him. He was by the large glass distiller that they would use to create the sedative. Had he started alone? He had been trying to crawl away from it. What had his thoughts been, at that moment?

Henry’s lifeless figure wavered before Victor as tears welled in his eyes. Horror filled him. He had done this. Henry was dead because of him. Sobbing he crawled back towards his friend. When he ran his fingers softly down his back, touching him only through the layers of his waistcoat he could not feel cold nor stiffness. He reached out and touched the hair that was tied at the back of Henry’s neck. It was soft. Henry’s face was turned away, but his jaw, his ear was visible. Were his eyes open? Was there pain in his expression? He needed to see, needed to know, but his body would not move. It shook with the force of his sobs. Slowly Victor hunched in on himself. Lowered his forehead to rest on Henry’s cold, hard corpse. The grief was a living thing in him, a gaping wound in his very core. He clung to Henry, wishing desperately, insanely that he would soften, warm and turn towards him. He crouched there for an indeterminate time.

The crushing grief subsided enough for Victor to be able to move and think again. His sobs had dissipated to silent tears, then nothing. He was leaned over Henry, resting his head on his shoulder. He needed to think, but thoughts came to him as through syrup, slowly and without coherence. He tried to remember what the last thing Henry had said to him had been, but he could not recall it. One thought loomed above all others, too great and horrifying to contemplate. Victor pushed it aside. He turned his mind to analysis. The fumes in the room were strong, but not enough to knock Victor out, whereas they had been enough to kill Henry. For a moment his thoughts stuttered.

Rigor mortis had set in fully. This had happened yesterday most likely. Henry was yet to start decomposing.

Victor’s mind recoiled into blankness. He lay his head back down on Henry’s shoulder. He reached out and took his hand. He couldn’t quite manage, it was curled up close to his chest, but he enclosed it with his fingers and slipped his thumb inside its rigid grasp. There was something terrifying about the hands. They kept looking so alive.

He needed to see Henry’s face before he did anything… else. Before he could think anymore. Before he could make any plans. He didn’t want to. Like this it was not quite real. Even as he leaned against Henry’s hard back and held his cold hand it was not quite real. But he had to face reality.

Rising slowly to his knees, Victor crawled around his friend, choosing to approach him from the foot-end, as to distance himself from what he was about to see. He trailed his eyes over his body as he inched forward. At first glance he looked just asleep, but when one looked closer one saw that his posture was unnaturally loose, relaxed in a way that was not seen in the living. Victor looked up. Henry’s eyes were open, their dark colour overlaid with the filminess of death. Victor choked on a gasping sob. He did not have pain in his expression. Perhaps it was surprise, or perhaps incomprehension. Perhaps it was just death. Victor reached out with trembling hands, laying his fingers on the eyelids, trying to push them down. They didn’t move. Sobbing, he withdrew his hand. That would have to wait. Wait until- No.

He cut the thought off. He reached out, untying Henry’s hair. He tried to arrange it around his face, to see if it would soften Henry’s unseeing stare, make him look a bit more like himself and not like a thing. It did not. Victor knew what would.

He rose unsteadily, vision fading for a moment. He wiped the tears away with the sleeve of his coat. He left Henry lying on the floor, locked the door with his key and went in search of a cart large enough for a body. It was not hard to find in a place like this, where the inmates were not kept at the best health. The brutes that worked here spared him only a glance. They were used to seeing him now, and not terribly interested in assisting unless they were made to.

Returned, he shut the door firmly behind him. It was early evening now. He had plenty of time to get Henry onto the cart. He would have to wait until late to leave.

Victor’s mind was blank as he struggled to lift Henry. He had moved many corpses, knew how to lift and move them in their limbless slackness. But Henry was not slack. He was unyielding, curled up on his side. Rigid, yet Victor knew that he was fragile like this. He didn’t want to hurt him. Did not want to break him and have to sew him up later. He shifted and maneuverered him and wanted to give up but he couldn’t. When finally Henry was on the cart Victor was covered in sweat and felt raw and bloody inside. He’d gotten a cloth to cover him with, large and coarse. He lay it over him like a blanket. It was still too early in the evening, he couldn’t leave yet. He didn’t want to cover Henry’s face yet.

He got a chair, sat down facing Henry. His mind recoiled every time he met those dead eyes in that familiar face. He lay in the same posture as before. Victor reached out and took the hand curled against his chest. It was still rigid and unyielding, but it was familiar. If Victor would close his eyes he could imagine it grasping his arm, his shoulder, reaching out to hold him still.

If Victor would close his eyes and imagine that he might go mad.

 

When the time was finally late enough for him to move it was hard to lay the fabric over Henry’s face. Victor had the feeling that when he withdrew the cloth again, Henry would be gone. That the recognition, the connection he felt now would have dissipated and there would be just another corpse on the cart. But it needed to be done. Be done now, or there would be just a corpse. He folded the cloth up to cover Henry fully. Made sure that his outstretched hand, that his shoes, that every part of him was covered. There would be no suspicion raised by a man with a corpse cart, but if someone saw that it was not a malnourished inmate on it there would be questions.

He rolled the cart through the asylum, out the back. He wasn’t questioned, barely noticed. He pushed it though empty streets, seeing hardly anyone. He arrived at his laboratory. It was harder getting Henry inside than any body he’d brought here before. He lay Henry on the floor, worn out. He would move him to the table, but not now. He lay down next to him. It was still Henry. His eyes had gone whiter, his cheeks were sunken, and the blood had pooled at the lower points of his body and solidified, leaving a large bruise over one half of his face, but it was still him. Victor reached out and took his hand. The grip was not quite so unyielding anymore; the rigor mortis was receding. Soon it would be time to begin. Victor took comfort in that thought.

What he would do wasn’t right or moral, he knew that. He’d sworn he’d never do this again. He knew that it might warp Henry horribly. But he would do it. He needed Henry. Victor stroked his lifeless hand. He would make him alive and well again. Make up for his transgressions, for his distance, his silence, for every harsh word he’d ever spoken.

He didn’t know how long he lay there. He didn’t sleep. He barely thought. Distantly he knew that he was in shock, but the thought slid away from his mind. He lay there while Henry’s hand gained the terrible, boneless slackness of death. Eventually he reached out and closed Henry’s milky eyes. It did not make him look less dead. He got up, ignoring his stiff and aching body. Henry was almost fully relaxed now, making getting him onto the table a matter of routine.

He cut off his clothes. Henry’s skin was greyish and mottled with lividity. Victor got a basin of water and a soft cloth. He carefully cleaned the dirt from Henry’s skin, removing that which people would produce in death. It was horribly intimate and at the same time terribly impersonal. When he’d finished he picked up the scalpel. His hand was shaking. He tried to steady it, but he could not. Then he realised why: the morphine. For the first time in a long time he had barely given it a thought, but his body hadn’t forgotten.

Frustrated he lay the scalpel down by Henry’s hand, as if he would pick it up and wield it in Victor’s stead. His case was downstairs. Henry was here. He couldn’t leave him. He couldn’t be sure that Henry would be here when he returned. He knew that thought to be unsound, but he could not deny it. He felt as if he turned his back Henry would rise up and leave him, perhaps leaving a rotting mound of flesh and bones, perhaps leaving nothing at all. But if he didn’t get the morphine he couldn’t perform the procedure. To try to do it with unsteady hands was unthinkable. He needed to execute it perfectly. Victor lay his hand on Henry’s arm, pressing down on it slightly as if to say he would be right back, just wait a moment, don’t go anywhere. Then he turned and walked briskly out of the laboratory.

The case lay open where he’d left it. He grabbed it, almost forgetting the tourniquet, and ran to Henry. He still lay on the table. His head was tilted slightly to the side, his eyes not fully closed, showing a sliver of white. Just as he had left him. Victor sniffled softly and placed the case down beside him. He brushed a strand of hair away from his forehead. He needed to continue, needed the morphine. He pulled up a chair next to Henry. It was too low; the table was made for standing. He opened the case.

For once he did not look forward to the surge of calm and contentment from the needle. He resented it. He didn’t want to be soothed, he wanted Henry. But without it he would be unable to get him back. Shaking, he tightened the leather strap around one arm, filling the syringe with as small a dose as he dared. There was a vein on the outside of his forearm that still was whole enough and it took him only a few attempts to get the needle in. He depressed the plunger, a sob tearing from his throat. The drug rushed through his veins, bringing its peace. He tore the tourniquet off, dropped the needle in its case, and rested his forehead on Henry’s arm, letting his tears flow freely. The morphine tried to blunt his grief but he didn’t let it. He gripped it tightly and held on. If he allowed himself to let go then Henry would remain still and limp. Abruptly he halted his crying. His hands were steady now; he was wasting time. He placed the narcotics on the floor and picked up the scalpel anew. His vision was blurry and he wiped at his eyes, breathing deeply until he was steady enough to proceed.

The first incision was below the clavicle. Victor lay the edge of the scalpel against Henry’s chest. His hand did not want to push it down, his mind was screaming that he was hurting him. He petted Henry softly over the sternum in apology and pressed the scalpel down. It parted the skin smoothly, the line it created straight and clean. It needed to be perfect.

Victor’s mind fractured as he worked, half of it disconnecting to protect him from the horror that was _cutting Henry_. Half of it was horrifically present, paying extreme attention to the minutest detail. When he had made Lily he had been building and improving on the methods he’d used on Proteus, on the creature before him and all their stillborn brethren, always improving and changing. With Henry he could not take that risk. With Henry there would be no second chance if it didn’t work the first. He did exactly what he’d done to Lily. Followed every step. Henry lay still and allowed Victor to dig deep inside him. He was watching though the small slit between his eyelids. Victor filled him with chemicals and tiny wires and pins and then finally stitched him up again. He made small careful sutures that would leave the faintest scars possible.

When he finished he looked up at Henry. The mottled bruises were fainter now after the treatment. Were his cheeks more sunken than before? The hollows below his eyes deeper? A surge of despair overcame him and he slumped over Henry, feeling the sutures digging into his cheek. He reached for Henry’s hand, brought it up in front of him to rest on his chest and held it. He wasn’t sure if he could manage, wasn’t sure if it would work this time. He wished Henry was awake to help him. Wished for his support, his clever mind, his warm presence. He brought Henry’s hand to his own cheek, holding it there. It was soothing.

Suddenly he returned to himself. He needed to continue. Henry was not helped by his wishes. He needed to be moved to the water.

Getting him onto the stretcher suspended from the ceiling was hard. Last time, he’d had his creature to help him move Lily. Henry was far heavier. He slumped against Victor, his head lolling back and forth. Victor escaped for a moment into self-delusion, imagining that Henry was helping, moving with him as well as he could. It made it easier.

Once Henry lay waiting, Victor filled the tub and added salts for conductivity, chemicals for preservation. He missed Henry’s mind acutely. He would have improved on the formulas Victor used tenfold. Now he would have to settle for Victor’s second rate attempt. When the tub was filled he finally lowered Henry into it. He took it agonisingly slowly, not wanting to jolt him unnecessarily. When the water reached Henry’s face Victor held his breath, feeling as if any moment now Henry would start coughing and choking. He did not. His face sank under the surface, followed by the long strands of his hair. Victor dropped the rope and hurried to the edge of the tub. The water was moving, distorting Henry’s features. It almost seemed as if he was breathing. Victor reached out, brushing his hair out of the way and lay his hand on Henry’s cheek. It was still cold and dead. He took his hand. It lay limp in his grip. He stroked it softly for a period of time.

He needed to remove the frame from which the stretcher hung. He had to shift Henry from side to side to do so, but the water buoyed him and made the job easier. Finally the thing was gone. Victor went and retrieved a table and pulled it close to the tub. It was the right height for him to sit by Henry’s side. He looked over the edge. The water had stilled, lessening the distortion to Henry’s features. Victor reached into the water and took his hand again. He wanted to imagine that Henry squeezed it back.

There was light coming through the windows. Victor had the vague sense that this was not the first day since they’d come here. It didn’t matter.

The water was cloudy and smelled of chemicals. Victor lay his free arm on the side of the tub and leaned his head on it. Now he would wait. Henry was safe now; Victor had prepared his insides and preserved him in the water. He felt a sense of calm at the thought. Just wait, and I will save you. Henry lay still below the surface. The misty water softened his sunken features, soothed the mottled bruises further. His hair floated in front of his face. Victor moved slowly, so not to disturb the water. He lay Henry’s hand down and reached for his hair. Smoothed it down as it floated around him, sweeping it behind his ears. A few strands did not obey. Victor left them be. He let his fingers follow the sutures on his chest, in an echo of what he’d done with Lily. The thought of her seemed oddly distant now. This was the same and not the same. He hadn’t known her then, only thought she was beautiful. He knew Henry. He picked up his hand again. He wanted him back. The thought of failure was unbearable. He had done this. He had killed Henry. He needed to save him. He _would_ save him. He would have him back.

It would be so good when he woke up. When he rose from the water and looked at Victor again. Victor would be a better friend to him then. Would be the friend he needed.

He noticed ripples on the surface. A tear had dripped from his eyes into the tub. He backed away, not wanting to disturb the balance of the solution. The room was dark now, only the electrical lights shining. Henry was not bothered by the lights, his eyes were closed. Victor wiped at his eyes with his free hand. They ached. His body ached. He ignored it, lay his head back down on the rim of the tub. When the storm came he would be ready. He would be here and waiting. In his mind he went over every step that he would need to take, every lever, every crank and dial he would turn. Don’t worry, he wanted to say, but the silence felt impossible to break. Just wait, he whispered in his heart.

The hand that held Henry’s was stinging. He shifted his eyes. Could see his wrinkled fingertips against Henry’s darker skin through the water. He lifted it a little. The skin that had been immersed in the water was red; the chemicals were inflaming it. He lifted their clasped hands out of the water entirely. Henry’s felt heavier as it surfaced, looked more real as it left the water. His fingertips were smooth. Victor lay there for a moment, watching the water drip. He realised that Henry’s hand was nearly dry, losing the protection of the chemicals. Hurriedly he placed it back along his side. His own hand stung as he submerged it again and he had to withdraw it.

How long had he been there, half-lying atop the table with the chemicals soaking into his arm? The skin was irritated, and the small wounds around his veins were not looking good. He looked at Henry. He would be of no use to him if he could not work his arms. He slid off the table and rose. Immediately his vision turned black and he narrowly avoided hitting his head as he fell to the floor.

For a moment he lay still as his vision cleared. For a moment longer he rested. He knew what had happened. His blood-pressure had not adjusted quickly enough to supply his brain with blood when he rose. Most likely because of hypovolaemia, insufficient blood-volume. He didn’t know how long it was since he’d found Henry, but he was sure he had not had food or water since. Hypovolaemia caused by dehydration. He needed to go downstairs, clean his arm, tend to his wounds and drink some water.

This time he rose slowly, giving his heart time to compensate for the changed elevation of his brain. He looked down at Henry. He would be appalled of him now. Victor would not tell him of this. Slowly he made his way downstairs. His heart was hammering. He found his bag and took it. Drank water from the tap. His body craved it but Victor did not. He took a pitcher and filled it. Washed away the chemicals from his skin. Picked up a wrinkled apple and brought it all upstairs.

He was shaking when he returned, maybe from the exertion, maybe from the fear of what would await him under the water.

It was still Henry. His eyes were still closed, his hair still floating around him, his hands still resting where they had been placed. Victor sniffled and placed his things on the table. He examined his wounds, put a small amount of salve on them and wrapped them in a clean length of bandages. He had similar needle-marks on his other arm, dark bruises standing out against white skin. If he soaked it they would have the same reaction as the others. He couldn’t get Henry back if he lost the use of his arms. He needed to remember that.

He placed the bag, the water, the apple on the floor. Lay down as before. The urge to reach out was so strong. The water was completely still and the dim lights didn’t reach far enough. He wasn’t sure if he was looking down though the water or at a flat picture of Henry submerged. He tilted his head. The perspective changed. It was reassuring.

Victor caught himself stroking Henry’s hair softly. He withdrew his hand. It had not been in too long, there was just slight wrinkling to the fingers. He dried it on his shirt.

There was a frown on Henry’s face. The thought had come to him slowly. He knew intellectually that it could not be so, but the thought didn’t leave him. It seemed there was a tightening of the brows, a small wrinkle between them. Victor leaned over the still surface. There was definitely a wrinkle on his forehead, his brows pulled sharply down. He looked angry. Any moment now he would open his mouth and scream. Open his eyes and they would be-

Victor recoiled. He hit his knee on the tub. Fell on his back on the table, precariously close to the edge. For a long moment he lay there, fighting the instinct that told him _run, run, run_. But he couldn’t leave Henry. The inside of the tub was not visible now. For a small moment he thought he saw Henry’s fingers grasping the edge, but it was just the sunlight. If Henry was angry he had every right to be. If he rose from the tub with murder in his eyes he had every right. Victor had done this. Victor would make this right. He would bring Henry back and heal him. He could not leave him.

Slowly he rose up on his arms. Terror made them shake. For a moment it seemed to him that the tub was empty. His stomach turned to ice and he leaned forward in a panic. Henry lay there still. There was no frown on his face, his eyes were closed. He had a serene expression of nothingness, of death on his face. A hallucination then. Victor supposed that was to be expected. He reached out and petted Henry’s shoulder. Don’t be angry, he thought. Just wait a little longer. The storm will come.

 

Sometime later he remembered to withdraw his hand. It didn’t sting much. He immediately missed the contact. Thought that perhaps that was why Henry had been angry: he was lonely. There was something wrong with the thought, but he was unsure what.

 

There were lights dancing in the water, swirling around Henry, glinting in his dark hair. Victor reached down to shoo them away. Henry’s skin did not feel cold to him anymore. His hand was still limp and very soft. It would be good when he would return Victor’s grip. Victor missed him.

 

He realised there were tears running from his eyes again. It was not good to cry into the water, so he leaned back.

 

There was someone knocking on the door below. Pounding on it with their fists. Victor did not even consider opening it. Maybe it was Sembene come to get him. But no, that thought was wrong. He was dead. Maybe Ethan then. Maybe he would break the door down and come up here. Victor wasn’t sure if he had closed the hidden door. He didn’t want Ethan to come here, didn’t want him to stop him. The knocking came again, this time accompanied by a flash of light.

It was not the door, it was the lightning.

Victor turned his face up, gaping. There was rain hammering on the glass and wind howling. How long had it gone on without him noticing? He cursed his foolishness, scrambled off the table, his vision blackening again, but he had no time. He stumbled around the room, each switch, each crank and lever etched into his mind. He knew what to do, knew it clearly. This was all he knew. He opened the window, raised the main conductor. His hands barely obeyed him but he forced them to calibrate his machine, to turn the cranks round and round. Finally he stood ready, his hand on the lever and the rain drenching him. The thunder still roared above. Time stretched and warped and bent. Every flash of lightning that did not hit the conductor made him shake a little harder. He needed this storm. It needed to work. There was nothing else, no other possibility. It would work. It must work.

When lightning struck it blinded him. He launched into action, falling over himself to turn the levers, to shut it down. It was done! He had done it! But had it worked?

He turned towards the tub. He needed to meet Henry, needed to reassure him in his confusion.

His body did not obey. He fell to his knees. His lungs seized. He couldn’t draw air. The memory of his childhood’s asthma attacks had come back to haunt him. He choked on nothing. He couldn’t do this now, not now, Henry needed him! Any moment he might rise. Victor didn’t want him to wake up and see no one. Didn’t want him to end up like his first-born, lonely and confused and hurt. He clawed at the floor, trying to will himself to rise. His body was failing him. He became vaguely aware of a wailing sound, thought for a moment it was Henry, but it was himself. His chest ached from his heaving sobs. He was shaking. If he could just get up, just get to Henry… His body would not obey. There was nothing left in him. He was failing. His heart was shattering in his chest, the shards cutting through his flesh.

There was a pressure on his shoulder. A cold, wet weight. His breath caught. He didn’t dare to hope, didn’t dare to open his eyes, could do nothing but gasp and shake. The pressure shifted, circled his neck and he was pulled forward. His cheek landed on a cold, wet shoulder.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Major Character Death. Detailed description of corpses and decay. Mental instability and grief. You've seen the show, you know how permanent death is.


End file.
